Bluebirds

A pair of bluebirds has recently arrived on our homestead. Periodically, they alight on the board fence behind my house. They sit on the top rail, surprisingly drab looking, scan the surrounding ground, dart down in a dazzling flash of azure to grab an insect, and then flit back to the fence. (Interestingly, the blue they sport is not a pigment in their feathers - the color is caused by light refracting through the physical structure of the feathers themselves. When backlit, the feathers appear brown. That's why they are more brilliantly colored when moving.) 

I notice them while dining, working with my kids in the "stone room," or doing chores in the kitchen. I am uplifted by their presence. And that's not just because they are good for eliminating insects or helping gardens, as the Self Sufficient Gardener podcast asserts in episode 109. You see, bluebirds are a particular sign for me. They bring consolation. They remind me to be joyful.

After my daughter was stillborn about 10 years ago, my heart was broken. I ached with grief. I struggled to wrap my mind around the reality. I remember feeling aimless rage at random things. From the start, I took solace in nature. 

For example, unable to sleep much the night after the funeral Mass, I arose early the next morning to a thick, wet fog. Everyone but my mother was sleeping, so we slipped out of the house into an other-worldy mist, where you couldn't see much beyond an arm-length. A flock of mourning doves rose in a jumble of shadow-forms and the whirring of wings from the yard. We identified them by their soft cooings, which sounded almost harsh in the hushed world of water vapor. Slowly we made our way across a stretch of hay, down the blacktop roads, and to the nearby hilltop country cemetery to gaze at the little mound of fresh earth, to pray. We arrived home filled with peace, but shrouded in grief, shrouded in mist, our minds thick with heavy thoughts, the air matching our mood. Our clothes and hair were soaked, as if tears that would no longer come were oozing from our pores. 

But the beauty of God's creation didn't always bring me solace. I remember one evening, several months later, collapsing into a rocking chair on the beautiful stone-slab porch of our old place, gazing across the road, down the valley of hay where the butterflies danced among the waving seed heads, at the pasture on the next ridge with its contended cows idly munching. After a time, I noticed a rabbit, nibbling dandelions in the grass near our mailbox just across the road. It deftly snipped a flower stem near the ground and nibbled, pulling the stalk bit by bit into its mouth until the fuzzy seeds stuck to the fur on its face like a beard. As usual, the beauty of nature fanned that flickering of hope within me. There was so much beauty in the world. 

Then the rabbit hopped into the road, tentatively thinking of crossing. That's when I heard the car round the corner about 1/4 mile away. I could hear it accelerating, as all cars did on our road. They all turned at the stop sign and just kept increasing speed until they were out of our little community and bounded by hay and woods. This car was no different, and I was paralyzed into inaction. My insides knotted up and screamed. "No. Please... no. Move. MOVE!" 

The rabbit that was so alive a moment before was struck before my eyes. A motionless mound of crushed bones and rumpled fur was all that was left. And instantly I was so hopeless that the anger welled up again. It seemed like such needless death and destruction took place so frequently in our cold world! Like most who face death and loss, things looked particularly bleak to me at moments like those. 

So I began praying to Mary and asking for her to intercede with her son for me. I identified particularly with her under the title of "Our Lady of Sorrows." The mother of Christ Crucified knew pain and suffering. She endured more sorrow than I. Surely she could help me accept this sorrow and work it into something good. After all, her "fiat" (Latin for "let it be done") was an example of how we are called to serve God.

This painting entitled, "Mother of Sorrows"
by William Adolph Bouguereau 
"spoke" to me at that time.

And so I prayed. And when I couldn't pray, I sang. As the song goes by Snow Patrol:

And when the worrying starts to hurt

and the world feels like graves of dirt

just close your eyes until

you can imagine this place, 

yeah, our secret space at will.

Shut your eyes and sing to me.

And so I sang the lyrics of a simple Catholic children's song by Jean Prather and Kathy Dobbin:
  

Mother of Sorrows, 

Lady of Tears, 

Virgin Most Desolate, 

all through the years 

the words of the prophet 

every day are renewed. 

The sword does pierce 

thy tender heart through.

Dear mother afflicted,
I think of your pain:
standing beneath the cross
where your dear lamb was slain.
Teach me to pray
as you prayed with your son,
"Father in heaven,
only thy will be done." 

And when I couldn't even hum that song, I lit candles in front of a statue of her as silent prayers rising to heaven. 

Shortly after turning to Mary in prayer, bluebirds appeared on our old property. They brought a flash of brilliant beauty to me at unexpected moments when I seemed to need comforted the most. I know it all probably sounds trite, superstitious, and silly, but those blue birds seemed like silent messengers from Mary reminding me that despite the fact that this world is imperfect- it is full of splendor and goodness too, that everything has a purpose, that good can be wrought from bad, that I was not alone, that she had taken my pleas to the Lord, that my time on this planet is only part of my existence, that my small daughter had never suffered any earthly pain, and that my daughter was probably in the company of Jesus himself. (How could I not be satisfied with that?!)

I suppose that their blue backs and heads made me think of Mary, since blue is the traditional color that she is depicted in. The rosy color of their breasts and sides reminds me of the liturgical color rose, which symbolizes joy. (Think Gaudete Sunday during Advent- Latin for "rejoice," and Laetare Sunday in Lent- latin for "be joyful.")  And the white of their bellies bore witness to Mary's purity. Whatever the case, and no matter how frivolous and fruity it may seem, I am glad that they have arrived at my new home. They are the proverbial "welcome sight for sore eyes" after the year that I have had (moving away from the cemetery where my kids are buried, leaving the home I loved, preparing it for sale, maintaining it and our new place- which are one hour apart, trying to "dig out" of the state that this new homestead was in, and tending and educating 4 kids from the ages of 2-13 while my husband was preoccupied and travelled a great deal, etc.)

I still grieve for my daughter. (I also grieve for a child that I miscarried a few years after her birth.) At certain times of the year, like the anniversary of her harrowing birth and mother's day, the pain is particularly sharp. But after the passage of time, I can see the good that my children's short lives wrought in me, in my family, and among certain friends and acquaintances. When I see bluebirds now, it is a reminder to pray, "Thank you, God!" For truly, I have SO much to be thankful for.